Conversations In Hell
by Zero.Elektronik
Summary: I died because of motorbike driver recklessly speeding down the road and driving straight into me. The motorbike driver was Christophe. That's how he had ended up down here too. Christophe, Damien and Kenny. May turn into a chaptered fic sometime.


**Warning: Hints of Slash.  
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**Disclaimer: They don't belong to me. Unfortunatley.**

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For the third time this week, I sat on the hard, scorching ground. The heat intensified through my trademark orange parka. The smell of fire, smoke and brimstone filled my lungs - it's a good job I was dead already, or this probably would have. Opposite me sit the taller, darker French mercenary, Christophe, a cigarette resting loosely between his fingers and the smoke rising up and disappearing. Beside him sits the smaller, pale-skinned, dark prince - Damien.

The two brunettes are playing a game of poker, Damien getting a royal flush and Christophe getting pissed at this being the fourth game in a row that he had lost. The two were sitting quietly, examining and placing down cards whilst discussing their British blondes who resided on the other side. After losing another game, the cards propelled forwards into Damien's face and the thick, gravely accent exclaiming,

"Fuck eet! Fuck zis sheet! You're cheating, Faggot!"  
"Fuck you, Frenchie! Just because you suck at this!"  
"Oh? Ze Same way you suck cock, eh?"  
"Fuck you!"

Damn. Another fight. It's all they seem to do; really, I don't know how Pip or...what was that other kids name...Gregory, that's it, put up with it. Maybe it's a British thing to be unable to resist the tall, dark, handsome and pretty much evil kind of guy. Whatever. 'Tophe's dark eyes are looking at me now, narrowing and fuck dude, it's terrifying. Hell, not like he can kill me, I'll just come right back.

"You! What ze fuck eez zat in your 'ands?!" Bone and muscle, blood and nerves slowly making rounds of this body that won't cease to exist. Oh, wait, giving the sarcastic response is probably not the best idea, so I meet his gaze and shrug,

"Bible." The look of disgust he gives me makes me feel like the dirt on his shoe, no, not even that - the bastard likes the dirt. Damien perks up, looking over and raising an eyebrow,

"Kenny. You're in hell, you should not be reading about my father's greatest enemy here, have you no respect?!"  
"'e's a fucking loser, zat's what. Why ze fuck are you reading zat?"

Between the two of them, they could burn me alive, cut me into tiny little pieces, bring me back to life, get me mauled by whatever disturbing creatures Damien could drag up, remove all of my vital organs and strangle me with my own intestines if they wanted. Whoever let them hang out together was an idiot, or a masochist, they're both the same thing. I turn the book's pages haphazardly and flick my eyes up towards them, trying not to be intimidated by Frenchie's stare.

"Well, I keep thinking. I've only been to heaven a few times, and I've died like...what? More than the cigarettes you've smoked, 'Tophe. So maybe if I read up on this damn thing, I can get into heaven more often." The two rolled their eyes and Christophe took this as the perfect moment to light another cigarette, "Hey, don't give me that look. Heaven's awesome dude, it's just full of hot chicks with huge tits, y'know?" This seemed to interest the mercenary, Damien not so much.

"Eet's a waste of time. God, ze cock sucking faggot will just keep killing you and sending you down 'ere."  
"Maybe, maybe not. Worth a shot though, right Damien?"  
"Don't ask me anything about him! If I had my way, my father would be ruling this stupid earth."

Great. I decided to ignore them from now on and let them get back to their game because hell, I had to be brought back home, happily alive and breathing sometime soon, right? I died because of motorbike driver recklessly speeding down the road and driving straight into me. The motorbike driver was Christophe. That's how he had ended up down here too - after hitting me, he crashed straight into a tree, flew off his bike into some roadside building. It was a guarantee that I'd come back, but Frenchie his chances relied on that poker game with Damien. If he won the next round, he'd be sent back up to South Park before me, if he won it in three days, he'd be sent up in three days. And by the look of the way things were going, he was going to be here for a while.

So, as I turn the next page, skipping various sections and heading to the New Testament I find my scenery changing. I no longer reside in the dark depths of hell, accompanied by a French killer and Satan's faggot kid, instead I'm sitting in my messy, dirty bed and the smell of sour milk and cigarettes clinging to my broken down walls and clothing. I rummage around to find a packet of cigarettes left on the windowsill - I take one and light it, inhaling and breathing smoke before smiling,

"Good luck, Frenchie."

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End file.
